The King. Then suppose that he realises that himself; suppose that the young king is conscious, however dimly and partially, of the lie he is living—and suppose that, to escape from it, he rushes into a life of pleasure. Is it not conceivable that he may have some good in him, for all that? And then suppose that one morning, after a night of revelling, the sun shines into his room; and he seems to see upon the wall, in letters of fire, some words that were said to him the night before—true words (CLARA looks up at him in surprise)—the words: "I despise you!" (CLARA gives a start.) Words like that can burn out falsehood. And he, to whom they are said, may long to hear again the tones of the voice that spoke them. No man has ever hated what has given him new life. If you had read a single one of the letters which I felt impelled to write even if they were refused acceptance—you would not have called it persecution. (CLARA does not answer.) And, as for my persecution of your father—I am not going to make any excuses for myself; I will only ask you to remember that a king has no control over the law and its judgments. I feel the sincerest respect for your father.
Clara. Thank you.
The King. And it is just part of the falsehood I was speaking of, that he should be condemned for saying of me what I have said a thousand times of myself!
Clara (softly). Dare I believe that?
The King. Ah, if only you had read one of my letters! Or even the little book of poems I sent you last! I thought that, if you would not receive my letters, perhaps a book—
Clara. I do not accept anonymous gifts.
The King. I see you are on your guard—although I don't admit that the poems were mine! May I read it to you?
Clara. I don't understand—.
The King. One that I marked—for you. It will prove to you what you refuse to believe.
Clara. But if the poem is not yours?